


Threading Daisies

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So John slides the deck into its pack, sighs out heavily through his nose and says, "Remember that, uh, talk we had, that first year here?  I'm calling it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threading Daisies

"If I owned all the green ink on the planet, would that mean I had the money, too?"

Ronon's delivery is never jocular, which explains why everyone stares at him, jaws flapping loosely.

He _is_ joking, though. "Ronon," John says, sounding like every weary father the universe over.

"I could just print my own, right?"

Even Rodney is too stunned to correct such an egregious notion. Then again, Rodney isn't correcting a whole lot, lately. It's not just John noticing it, either, not by the quick, hummingbird-glances Keller gives him. "You could," John says, "if you had the right paper -- which someone else owns, namely the government -- and the right printing presses -- also owned by the government -- and oh yes, if it wouldn't completely drive up inflation making it worthless."

Ronon frowns at this. "I don't get it."

"Who decided it'd be good to teach him economics?" Rodney asks, faintly. His eyes are still ringed wide with surprise. "Really, I'd very much like to know. I'm pretty sure I've got some files that need to be cleaned out, rooms that could do with some dusting, and clearly someone has _far_ too much time on their hands."

"Rodney, you don't have any files," Keller admonishes. She's trying to tease, John notes, eyes friendly and eager, but her mouth is pushed down with logic her amusement can't breach. Rodney really doesn't _have_ files; everything's electronic or he just doesn't look at it.

Which is why _Radek_ has all the files.

It's only because John's watching that he sees Rodney flinch just a little. Subtlety isn't his thing -- Rodney loves billboards, loves neon-bright colors and microphones that pound out across continents, because everyone _should_ know his each specific thought and whim -- but he's good at it when he wants to be. "That's, ah, that's irrelevant," he says, and it's wrong. It's _all_ wrong, because Rodney isn't halting, or careful, or caught dangling over the twin possibilities of being _right_ , gloriously, accurately right, and hurting someone's feelings. Even when Rodney cares about the latter, he never _really_ cares.

He is now, though, and it's wrong. All kinds of wrong that John really doesn't like, particularly since he's only recently _noticed_ it, which is even more flavors of wrongness. Watching it makes his skin crawl, actually, ants moving across his shoulders in complete and utter rejection of what he's seeing.

This isn't Rodney. It hasn't been for a while.

John's teeth itch.

Teyla carefully clears her throat and John startles, belatedly aware that he's frowning at Rodney and, well, glaring at him. Really glaring, because Rodney is looking even smaller in his chair, cards a messy pink-patterned tumble before him on the table. Poker is very Star Trek, but it just doesn't work without the green card-table. And Data's visor. "I believe we should call it a night?"

Her upward inflection is for the terminology, not because she's uncertain if she's right. John flashes her a grateful look and tosses his cards down flat. "Agreed. Time for bed, boys and girls. We've all got early meetings tomorrow."

Keller makes a face, amusing on her too-young features, and Rodney -- dammit, Rodney _flinches_ again.

That's it. John hangs back while the others grumble and yawn and wave their goodbyes to the clean night sky, gathering up the cards and pushing slick-skinned paper into a neat rectangle. Rodney is moving slowly, hesitating footsteps that take him behind Teyla and Ronon -- still bickering amiably about their confusion of the US economy -- and Keller, who is also moving just a hair too slowly.

"McKay," John calls, "come help me." When Keller turns, hand out to say she could too, John waves her off. "Nah, I got it. Go to sleep, you look exhausted."

It's true, actually. She does look exhausted, and sad, nodding meekly as she turns away and heads off to, hopefully, her quarters. The ones located on an entirely different wing than John's and Rodney's.

"If you've 'got it'," Rodney says, "why exactly am I here?"

He's bad at this. Really, _really_ bad, but McKay looks like a Dali painting, all the various bits of him sliding downwards in a sickening line, no matter how sharply his voice still cuts. So John slides the deck into its pack, sighs out heavily through his nose and says, "Remember that, uh, talk we had, that first year here? I'm calling it."

He sounds like a nervous kid asking his first girl on a date. He _feels_ worse -- Laurie had been sucking hickies on his neck, at the time, so John remembers being pretty certain of her response.

Rodney, however, doesn't even narrow his eyes, or cross his arms, brain lumbering back online to try and dissect why John's requesting a favor that usually _Rodney_ asks for. "Sure. Uh. Gimme a few minutes, and then I'll -- "

"I'm coming back with you," John interrupts.

"Oh. Um. Okay?"

Okay, John nods, firmly. His shoulders are starting to square as he walks through the hallway next to Rodney and he has to work at lowering them. This isn't something to be nervous about. For all it's Rodney who usually makes the first move, it's never more than a week or two _between_ those moves and hang on -- christ, John thinks, has it really been well over two months? Waiting through the transporter -- each of them expects the other to choose their destination, which ends with comical stuttering and blushing -- John counts back and actually, it's been _over_ two months since the last time.

He remembers the last time and tries not to imitate Rodney's barely-there flinch. _There's_ a sign he should've picked up on.

Once at Rodney's quarters, Rodney stands awkwardly next to the bed, the only place he can keep distance between them without being too obvious about it. He's still obvious. "So, um. D'you want me to -- "

John cuts him off with a, "No, wait, let me think."

There's a rhythm that he's fighting against, a tide that tells him since he asked, then he gets to tell. Except he doesn't _want_ to, not the way Rodney so eagerly and openly asks for what he wants whether it's watching movies he knows John will hate and wants to share anyway, or... or the other things they do. The quiet calls at two am where Rodney says, _Can you?_ and _Like this, I want,_ and it's so damned easy for John to just do it, sliding wherever he's positioned with an fervor he never shows, because he's afraid it over-awes even Rodney's so-obvious excitement.

And Rodney's always excited. Even if it's like the last time.

Eventually, John nods, satisfied with what he's come up with. It's not... it's not what Rodney would do, and strange as it is, John bases a lot of his actions on what Rodney would do, or approve of, when they trade off these favors. It's something Rodney will probably hate, at first, but John is persistent and he knows he can sell this.

Sitting on the bed, John pats the thick coverlet -- green with golden starbursts, a gift from Jeanie who was just as tired of Rodney's constant complaints of cold -- and waits for Rodney to join him. "I'm just gonna... look, just, let me, okay?"

Rodney frowns at him, but there's no oomph behind it. "Sure?"

"Just let me," John repeats.

So Rodney does. The frown never lets up, but his limbs stay loose and accepting as John repositions him again and again, removing an article of clothes with each new pose. John's clothes come off at the same time, almost violently in comparison, but Rodney doesn't do anything but watch, eyes shifting like a storm at sea, shades of dark and light too quick to really identify his only response. John shivers under it, but tries to ignore it -- he knows what he's doing. Finally, he knows what he's doing.

It feels good. The knowing _and_ the doing.

Soon Rodney's naked, once again sitting on the bed with John -- also naked -- next to him. It feels surprisingly chaste to John, for all Rodney's got his eyes locked on John's stomach. Or maybe it's lower, but with John's legs together -- chaste, like a girl, nervous and uncertain for all this is _nothing_ new -- Rodney sure isn't seeing much. But it still feels -- no, not chaste, _normal_ , like this is something they've done a hundred times before, and will do a hundred more times later.

John likes it.

"So is this your master plan?" Rodney asks, voice low in the stillness. Atlantis always feels quieter at night, and voices drop accordingly, like the air itself is suddenly closer, more intimate. "Get me naked and do nothing with me?"

"Lie down," John says, just as soft, refusing to be baited. "On your side."

Rodney heaves a sigh -- it says _finally_ to John -- that is quickly cut off when the sheets are yanked from under him. "You usually like on top of the covers," he says, frowning.

"I called the favor, remember?"

"Yes, and so far, you're not really asking for anything, are you."

"I'm asking you to do this, Rodney. Lie down." Muttering, Rodney huffs his way onto the bed, settling so he can see John. "No, your other side. Face away."

No one is ever graceful as they shift from lying on one side to the other, and Rodney has a tendency to flail with his arms. "Are you trying to torture me?"

John closes his eyes and _sees_ : the last time, Rodney sitting in the desk chair of John's room, watching the laptop screen without seeing a second of it. John, watching him, wondering why _this_ was what Rodney wanted. Why it felt like Rodney wanted to ask a question, something awkward and annoying and dangerous, and why John was such a coward that he couldn't tug it free the way he wanted to.

Why afterward, John had wondered where are all the broken shards were, because something had certainly shattered.

"I'm not trying to torture you, Rodney," John whispers. "I promise."

John lies down before he can talk himself out of it. He doesn't inch, doesn't prepare himself for moving ever closer. He just _is_ close, flattening himself until he's completely covered Rodney's back, knees tucked behind Rodney's, arm slung casually so he can place his hand right on Rodney's sternum.

Oddly enough, once he's settled he goes _liquid._ It's Rodney who tenses.

"Is this some, uh, new kink?" Rodney asks faintly.

"Yes, Rodney. Cuddling is the new hardcore."

"That's not what I -- cuddling? Really?"

"Cuddling," he confirms. The tips of his ears go hot, glowing pink in the darkness. It's a damn good thing Rodney's facing away.

"But... why?"

John lets his eyes shut, tipping his face into the back of Rodney's neck. His hair is just a little bit sweaty, but John doesn't mind. It smells good. It _feels_ good, and god, he's missed this so much. Even though they've never done it before.

Tightening his arm so Rodney -- hot skin, heavy muscle, the too-quick _beat beat beat_ of his heart echoing backward -- is snugged a millimeter closer, John says, "Because that's what I'm asking for."

Minutes slip by, Rodney calming as John stays where he is, sleepy and warm and breathing in Rodney with each long inhale. It's good, like this, because Rodney is comfortable to lean against, bulky enough to feel nice in his arms, and his feet are freezing, but John's got the blanket up and eventually he won't have ice-blocks bumping into his shins.

"John."

"It doesn't matter."

"That's just it," Rodney says, humbly offering. "It ... it really _does."_

John kisses skin, tasting salt and worry, upset that he's taken far too long to notice. "Go to sleep, Rodney," he murmurs, kissing again, because it's good, it tastes good and feels good, and Rodney relaxes more under each brush of his lips. "I got it."

"But I -- I mean, we -- "

 _"We_ are sleeping."

That catches Rodney off guard, the hitch in his mental process audible. "Wait -- we?"

"If you still want to talk to me," John says, and he really hopes Rodney doesn't, his voice says, "we'll have all morning. Right now, I just want to sleep."

"Like this."

He's going to make John say it. But then, the last couple weeks have been bad for Rodney, and as much as it hurts, John owes him this. It's his fault. Or maybe it's Rodney's, for not saying anything when he's the one who says everything. Or maybe it's Keller's fault, for being so _possible_ , the first real possibility in five years, the first honest distraction amongst a host of flittering, glittering baubles. 

But John can't blame her for merely existing. Or Rodney, who has never learned to trust people to share with him his wants.

So he says, "Yeah," and smiles against Rodney's skin, suddenly, shyly, joyful. "With you."


End file.
